


Felt, Not Seen

by untilthepainstarts



Category: Original Work
Genre: Begging, Branding, Caning, Consensual Sex, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Original Character(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Threats of Violence, Torture, Unconventional Restraints, Whump, Wildly Inappropriate Background Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-04-24 07:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 21,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22179805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilthepainstarts/pseuds/untilthepainstarts
Summary: This is a story about Lev Alexander Johnson's no good, very bad two-week stint of captivity with sadist and former ranked member of the Australian mob, Martin Viklund-Reid. All characters here were developed through one-shots and prompts on Tumblr originally, and then corralled into something resembling a plot. Vaguely. Kinda. It's complicated.This series contains heavy violence, torture, rape/noncon, major sadistic bastardry, blood, caning, fancy ropework, branding, and many, many knives... and is interspersed with love, angst, and the desperation of a man who just wants his boyfriend back - please, dear god, please.If this still sounds like your cup of tea, welcome. I hope you like it.
Comments: 31
Kudos: 94





	1. Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin remembers how much fun his toy is to play with. (Captivity day 1)

“It seems too easy to get you begging me not to do something to you. Don't get me wrong, I'd still love it. But I'm in the mood for something a bit... different.”

Martin brought the flat of the blade to Lev's cheek, watching as the man's eyelids fluttered shut, and his breathing slowed in concentration. The tiny crease that formed between his eyebrows. Cute.

This one was a nasty little number, six inches with a mean-looking gut hook on the back of it. Made for ripping. It shone with the dim light of the safehouse bedroom.

“Tell you what,” he continued, “I'll let you choose which way you're hurt. But only if you beg me for it, first.”

Lev's stress response would be kicking in soon, likely. Martin could see the slight tense in the muscles, the glazing of the eyes. He'd watched him enough to get a sense for it now. He would get too stressed, for too long... and then his body might start to lock up. Breath might start to come faster.

But until then, he seemed to be in intellectualization mode.

Lev's tone was quiet and even. “You're just gonna hurt me in whatever way I say, and then in whatever way you want.”

The boy just couldn't help it, could he? It was in his nature. Somewhere hard-coded in his DNA. Chuffed at his accurate guess, Martin decided to try at something else that he thought might be similarly reliable, given what he already knew.

“Look at me,” he ordered. Brown eyes snapped to his. “Turn your head.” Lev's jaw tightened, and he tilted his cheek to one side. “Now close your eyes.” Did that, too.

“Wow,” Martin laughed, “Lev, did you notice that? I just gave you three orders and you did exactly as I asked, without question. Did you realise that? Did you even notice it, or were you just on autopilot?”

The slow uneasiness dawning in those brown eyes as they blinked back open, and then narrowed... had Martin feeling like a junkie, chasing a high.

“I...”

Martin cut him off. “Are you going to beg for me, darling?”

“No,” came the terse reply.

“Come on,” Martin whined, singing through the words. “I'll bet you know how.” He pushed further up against the body in front of him, as far as he could given that his hostage's forearms were bound behind him, between his body and the wall. Wrapped up nice and tight in several layers of plastic film, just how he's ordered. It was nice—it meant that Lev had to arch his lower back around his own arms if he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

“I don't… what do you want me to say,” said Lev. A statement of resignation.

Not good enough. He wanted him to work for it, at least a little.

“You're intelligent. I'm sure you can come up with something.” He traced the line of Lev's bottom lip with the point of the knife, not enough pressure to cut. Started the boy's line for him. "Please, Martin..."

Lev drew a shaky breath, one that looked as if it took some effort. “Please,” he said, “the cane. Not the knife. Please—hit me with the cane.”


	2. Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev remembers what it feels like to be compliant. (Captivity Day 1)

Before Lev could retract the frankly horrifying words that had just left his mouth, the buzz of a phone sounded from the other side of the bedroom.

Martin hung his head, sighing, shoulders sagging. “Hold that thought.”

The knife at Lev's face withdrew, and along with it the force supplied by the man's body that had been keeping him up against the wall. Lev's legs slowly gave way and he slid to the floor, trying to gather his thoughts. Shaking.

He'd asked for the cane. He'd asked for the cane, and he'd said please. Why? Why did he keep hoping this man would give him any kind of reprieve, see any reason—was he really that gullible?

Granted, he knew why. Because the cane was better than the knife. 

Lev's eyes darted to the door and back to Martin, furtively. The man had moved to the bedside table, placing the strangely shaped knife down before answering his phone. Lev could hear the speaker on the other end, clearly enough to determine that the voice was male, but not distinctly enough for him to make out the words.

“What, you can't do your job for twelve seconds while I'm away?” Martin answered, turning his back.

Lev shuffled his feet closer to himself, resting his head on his knees for just a moment as a bout of nausea swept over him. It had been nearly thirty hours since his last pill, maybe, and withdrawal from his anxiety meds always made him feel queasy. He was hungry, and tired. Maybe he had a few minutes to himself before… before…

Before what, he didn't know. The man seemed to want to hurt him, but to what end, and whether or not Lev had any hope of getting out of here...

He looked up the moment he heard further movement. Martin walked over to a set of drawers at the far end of the room, and pulled out a long, black case, opening it, lifting out a long handle with a delicate design threaded down it.

It wasn't a cane. This was some kind of intricate knife, two handles that danced out from a central point as it moved. A butterfly knife. Dread crystallized in Lev's core as he watched Martin begin to play, the man's phone still pressed to his ear with the other hand.

The knife twirled open, then shut. Open, spinning with a flourish, then shut. It was manipulated over and through fingers and thumb with such liquid, rapid, effortless movement that it was darkly mesmerising.

Lev knew Martin was trying to intimidate him, or trying to keep him paralysed with fear from across the room, or just showing off—or, hell, all of the above. He knew, but he couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't pry his jaw from itself. To his shame, it was working.

“No, Davies has it, Roshan has the boxes.” A pause. Open, flourish, and shut. “Fucking—that's because she told you to take them weeks ago, and then you didn't, like an idiot.”

He couldn't recognise any of those names from what he'd been able to glean about the mob, but Martin wasn't exactly with the mob anyway. At least, not exclusively. Maybe these were his own people.

All Lev could do was wait for the man to be done, and somehow? He knew trying to run would only make it worse. 

Another long stretch of silence, punctuated with the_ clack, clack, clack_ of metal on metal. He was spinning it and flipping it in the air, catching the handles between nimble fingers. “Yeah, I've got him here.” _Clack_. A chuckle. “I will. We're gonna have some fun tonight. You and Davies should come 'round later. Alright. Talk soon.”

Martin threw his phone down on the bed with an exaggerated exhale. He tilted his head, looking back at where Lev was seated.

“Sorry about that. Subordinates,” he said. With a final spin and twist and clack, he shut the knife and latched it, giving Lev a grin. “Good, isn't it? Thought you might like it. I'll introduce you to her properly later. But for now… ah, damn. What was it you asked for? The whip?”

Lev shook his head slowly, sick with the force of his fear. Since the end of the phone conversation and the mention of _fun_, he'd been starting to feel light, airy, and now his head was pounding, and the dark spots were clouding his vision, and he just couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't—

Slowly, groggily, Lev blinked the darkness from his vision to find Martin right there, sitting cross-legged on the floor before him. Studying him with an eager expression. The cane resting across his knees.

"Hm. Thought I'd lost you for a second, there. No no no, easy love. Easy," Martin cooed as Lev tried to wriggle away from him, as much as the bindings on his arms and legs would allow. "Don't worry, don't worry. I intend to keep my promises. But does the whip really freak you out that much more than the cane?"

Lev could only shake his head, numb, not really in response to the question, but because the rest of his body was wound painfully tight, and he couldn't do much else.

"Ah," Martin smiled, a hint of mocking realisation in his eyes, "or was it that I invited Baltimore and Davies over? Don't worry. I won't let them hurt you. Well, I might let them beat you, a little. But not anything else, not tonight. Unless you ask for it nicely. Now... lets get you out of those clothes, shall we?"

"Dn, nnh," Lev whimpered, the words sparking but failing to ignite properly.

"What?" Martin leaned in closer.

"Don't, don't take, take, take," Lev halted for a few beats, struggling for coherence, panicky and breathless. "Don't take my shirt. Hit me, over my clothes. Hit—hit me. Don't cut me."

Martin's smile was wide, and vicious, and incredibly, impossibly cruel. "What do you say, love?"

Lev wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sleep. But he'd already lost his dignity, his self esteem. He was already going to be hurt. What was one more concession?

"Please," he breathed.

"Good boy."


	3. Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin meditates on the importance of self-control, and calls in some assistance. (Captivity Day 1)

His boy was doing his utmost not to make a sound.

Martin could see it in the tension in his body preceding each stroke, and in the clench of his hands after. His boy wasn’t_ succeeding_, not by any stretch of the imagination—involuntary keens and gasps still sounded in the quiet of the room, interspersed with the whistle and crack of the rattan cane. Martin cherished every one of them as if they were secret shames, revealed in a church confessional.

It would be so much better if he could actually see the red welts that the cane was planting on Lev’s back, his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Watch the contusions, so carefully cultivated, as they blossomed. But there would be plenty of time to admire those marks later, trace his fingers over the warm, inflamed skin, lay kisses across the tender spots there. Impose upon Lev the softer, deeper pain that only uninvited intimacy could inflict.

He wanted to take his time. He wanted to savour this. 

The little sounds, and the flinches—those were things that he could enjoy right now.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this.” Martin whispered, enraptured, the words a quiet prayer.

Standing behind Lev, readying another strike to his upper back, he noticed a small motion he hadn’t caught the other man doing before. Slender fingers were each moving to touch the thumb, in turn, from index down to pinky finger, and back again. A slow, steady rhythm. One, two, three, four… three, two, one, pause.

“Still with me?” Martin asked, moving around to the front.

He wasn’t sure if the man could answer even if he wanted to, at the moment. Eyes open, and yet unseeing. Blinking slow. The body trembling with pain, and fear perhaps, but the mind had shielded itself, just a little. Fascinating, every time he saw it.

More fascinating, was the way Lev never seemed to run from him. Cower, yes, flinch. But not run.

The little thing with the fingers, though... that was very interesting.

There was a distant jingle of keys, presumably as Martin’s men let themselves in through the front door. He checked his watch. Shit—had they been going for two hours now? Martin extended his arms over his head, using the cane to stretch out his shoulders. He moved to open the door as the heavy footsteps drew near.

“Evening, boss,” Davies greeted, giving him a friendly salute. His eyes flickered past Martin’s shoulder into the room, to the activities already underway.

“Baltimore coming?”

Davies clasped his hands in front of him, one over the wrist of the other. Standing to attention, but in a more relaxed posture than if he was on the clock. “Said he was ‘too old and tired for this kinky millennial shit’, sir.”

Martin raised his eyebrows and nodded, an acquiescing gesture, one that read_y__ou know what, f__air __cop. _He ushered him into the room, and held out the cane.

“Take over for me. My arm’s getting tired.”

“Limits?”

“Cane only. Take care not to hit his head, hands, feet, or spine. I’ll tell you when to stop. And Davies?”

“Sir?”

“Go _slowly_.”

The sinister anticipation that flashed across Davies’ face as he took the cane satisfied Martin immensely, as did the choked sob that rang out from behind the larger man’s back. Ah. His boy was lucid again, or at least enough to have heard that.

New members of his organisation were always selected with extreme caution, and this hire, Davies, was no exception. Only twenty-seven, and admittedly, bigger and more powerfully built than Martin was himself—but the man had a certain kind of energy and eagerness about him that was always pleasing to see in the rookies. A go-getter. He could work with that.

He watched intently as Davies circled once, twice, thrice, lifting the cane and bringing it down at speed, generating the _whoosh_, but stopping just before impact. Grinning at the violent flinch that it set off in Lev.

Yeah. He’d fit in well, here.

“I need a drink. I’ll be back. Don’t kill him.”

Martin, leaving Lev in the strong, capable hands eager to work him over, wandered to the kitchen. He reached into one of the cupboards above the sink, pulling out the crystal scotch decanter, and two glasses. Poured a few fingers of the liquid in each. Savoured the mixes of sensation as he raised the glass to his lips—the heady smell of the single malt, the sharp cracking noise, and the startled, agonised cry that rang out through the safehouse.

When he returned to the room, Martin offered the second glass to Davies. The man accepted it with one hand, holding out the cane with the other, but Martin waved it away. Instead he knelt down in front of Lev, face to face with him, cupping each cheek with his hands. He glanced up at Davies. “Keep going.”

A delightful _no, no, please, no_ from his boy. Martin was absolutely smitten by the words. He wanted to hear them again, and again.

Davies took a sip of the whiskey, and placed the glass on the floor. He searched for an angle, one that wouldn’t accidentally cause the cane to wrap around and strike his boss in the face, and Martin took advantage of the moments to brush the hair from Lev’s eyes, the sweat from his brow.

The cane was swung again, impacting. His boy shuddered, but didn’t make a sound.

“Um,” said Davies, looking at him with a sheepish expression. “Sorry boss. I’ll buy you a new one.” He held up the cane, showing the way it was bent in a V-shape at the middle.

“Ah. Well, I guess I never specified not to break my tools, per se.” Martin took the broken cane from his subordinate, bringing it into Lev’s view. “Look, Lev,” he said softly. “Look at how strong you were. So good for me. And… you did beg me to be hit with this one, but we can’t do that now, so… seems like it’s time to stop for tonight, right?”

Lev gazed up at him with a confused, pained, hopeful look. Searching for the right words. And he found them.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love.”

Then, tilting his head to the side with a frown, Lev closed his eyes. Withdrew.

As Martin closed and locked the bedroom door, he turned to Davies. “Don’t worry about the cane,” he said, voice low. “I would’ve instructed you how to use it properly if I’d intended you not to break it. I’ve been thinking about getting a new one for a while.”

His subordinate sighed a breath of relief. “I’ll bring you a new one, anyway—just send me your shopping list.”

“Sounds good. Come back tomorrow night, if you’re free. I’ve got a few more…” Martin trailed off, holding up a finger. The sound of hiccuping cries filtered through the door.

Davies smiled. “You’re a perverted motherfucker, sir.”

“Thank you, Davies.”


	4. Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: Lev and his boyfriend Graham have a moment. (Prior to captivity).  
This chapter contains fade-to-black consensual sex.

“Do you like them?”

Picking his jaw up from the floor, blinking a few times, Graham looked up from Lev’s chest to his face. “They’re stunning.”

“You, uh… looked like you short-circuited for a bit there,” teased Lev. He was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, shirtless, hands on his hips. “The piercer was really nice, actually. She made sure I knew when she was about to touch me, and what she was doing. And,” he said, moving further into the room, “humoured my nervous rambling about the movie posters in her studio. So that was cool of her.”

“May I?”

“Sure. Gently.”

Graham placed his book down on the bedside table and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He ghosted hesitant fingertips across his partner’s pecs, and the twin silver barbells at the nipples there.

“What made you decide to get them?”

“Been wanting to for a little while. Kinda felt like I was taking my body back, y'know?”

Graham was close enough to plant tiny, careful kisses on his partner’s stomach, so he did so. Absorbing the hitches and sighs as they escaped the body before him, feeling the slow burn of desire simmer through his own. He slipped off the bed and onto his knees on the carpet, bringing his hands up to run them up and down Lev’s sides. Still kissing skin, softly, softly. His boyfriend twisting in his hands, retreating from the ticklish sensation. When he looked up, Lev was biting his lip. Eyes dancing.

His smile, spreading across his face as they locked eyes, was… everything.

“Wanna make you feel good,” Graham murmured. “Only if you want that too.”

“Sure—but, um, I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to… you know, _do, _today.”

“Oh, no,” Graham said, already feeling his face grow warmer, his heart rate quicken. “Was just hoping to use my mouth on you. Hadn’t even thought about more than that.”

“Oh? I’m listening. Tell me more.”

Graham grinned, moving his hands down to gently squeeze at the backs of Lev’s thighs. “I’d prefer to show you.”

* * *

“Well,” said Lev, “we could talk about it now? You tell me one thing that turns you on, and then I’ll tell you one of mine.”

Lev was sitting on the bed just next to Graham, pyjamas donned and teeth brushed, Rosie rumbling like a little motor engine in his lap. The calico always seemed to prefer Lev to her owner, climbing all over him like a playground whenever the other man stayed over. Betrayed by his own damn cat.

He looked up to the coy little smile on Lev’s lips. “Okay,” he said, and tried to think about something to say.

The quilt cover was soft against his back, dipping under his weight in places, and the freshly washed sheets smelled faintly of lavender. The lazy winding-down of the day outside was a filter of amber and gold, painting their little world with warmth, and when Graham reached up to draw circles onto Lev’s back he was met with the gradual push of the other man leaning into his touch.

Graham pursed his lips. “I’ve got nothing.”

He was shot with a disbelieving look, brown eyes widening. “Nothing? _Really_? Not even after you just showed me how fond you were of my new piercings by getting down on your knees and s—“

Graham spluttered in what was definitely feigned embarrassment, and had no relation to the heat climbing its way back up his neck—none whatsoever. “Maybe I just like _you_,” he said, dragging his hands down his face.

“Who doesn’t, honestly? I’m a delight.”

And he was—his delightful, lovely, beautifully wicked, and wickedly beautiful boyfriend, and Graham was so, so, impossibly lucky.

He rolled over on the bed, snaking an arm around Lev’s waist in a half-hug, earning a chuckle from the man and a bop on the head from the cat in his lap.

“I’m sorry?” Graham asked the calico, incredulous. “Am I interrupting your quality time? Am I not allowed to have him back yet?”

Lev’s laugh was sudden and loud, and punctuated with a snort. “Rosie thinks I’m a delight.” The little _mrrp _that she vocalized only made Lev laugh harder, and the sound was contagious, sending embers into his own chest. They caught like wildfire.


	5. Shave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev stays very, very, very still. (Captivity Day 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains past implied death, and a brief mention of alcoholism and ptsd.

He woke up to the lurching sensation of being dragged_, _out of the bedroom and down a hallway, by a hand wrapped around the bindings at his feet. Lev let out a surprised grunt as his head bumped against a doorframe on the turn.

“Good morning,” a cheery voice sounded, “we’re having guests over today, and you look and smell like absolute shit.”

The movement ceased. Even face-down on the tiled floor, whatever lights the room had were incredibly bright, and he had to blink rapidly in an attempt to adjust. His eyes were already feeling puffy and raw, likely from the way he’d been crying on-and-off throughout the early hours.

Lev felt the push of a hand in the centre of his back, right over the major site of last night’s beating. He hissed as he was pressed down into the tiles, the pain sending a fresh twist of nausea through his aching body. _God. _The swell of salt on his tongue. _Don’t. _He shut his eyes and grit his teeth, focusing on the cold ceramic against his forehead, willing the wave to subside.

A gentle pressure at his arms, and the plastic film that had been binding them together was peeled away, sticky with sweat. As Lev brought his arms down by his sides, his back muscles groaned in protest, and he along with them. Blood flooded back along the canals to his fingertips. The warmth was good—the sudden return of sensation? Not so much.

His feet were untied as well, and he was hauled up to sit on a chair, in front of a large full-length mirror. He just had enough time to take in his surroundings, notice his own, bloodshot eyes staring back at him—and then Martin came into view, carrying a straight razor.

“More?” Lev blurted at the sight of yet another knife, before he could bite the word.

Martin stretched out the leather strop that was tied to the faucet of the sink, deftly giving the razor several passes across it. He regarded Lev in the mirror with a little smirk. "More knives? Yes. I've got quite a number, now. Picked up another just the other day—a vintage bowie—but it’s still being restored.”

Lev could run. He should run. But his body was already stiff with fear, and pain, and… he didn’t want to die. He really didn’t want to die.

And it was too late, because Martin was in front of him, pressing two fingers on either side of his jaw to tilt his head back. Lev stared at the ceiling, and tried to breathe.

After patting Lev’s face down with a hot, wet towel and working a lather onto his cheeks and jaw with the soft brush, Martin picked up the razor again. “I don’t have to tell you what happens if you move."

The man definitely didn’t. Lev swallowed. “Please don’t cut me.”

“I won’t. Long as you hold still.”

The first instance of fingertips pulling the skin tight, cold steel pressing in just under his cheekbone, had Lev clenching his hands around the arms of the chair and praying to a god he only maybe-sort-of believed in.

“Stop shaking,” Martin ordered, wiping hair and shaving cream onto a towel.

_Love to_, Lev would have said, if it weren’t for the razor going in for another series of short, sharp strokes. It felt as if it was shaving years off his lifespan along with it.

His life could end, right now. His life could have ended at any point, but somehow, right now, with the razor passing across his chin, now was the moment his brain was choosing to whittle down to a point of focus. Focus. Focus. He couldn’t see Martin’s expression from this angle.

“Did our loverboy tell you the reason I was looking for him, the first time you and I met? What he did to me?”

Lev was already aware of the things his partner had been forced to do for the mob. Graham had confessed everything to him one night, in frantic, tearful whispers. His guilt, his fears, his shame.

_I’ll only drag you down, chook. I’ve done awful things._

_Then tell me_, Lev had said. _Tell me everything. But you don’t get to decide for me whether I stay or go._

Martin stood back, looking at him calmly. “You should know by now that ignoring me doesn’t go well for you.”

“Sorry, uh. He didn’t.”

He wanted to hear Martin say it. Hear the man twist the truth into knots, let whatever pathological thing that hid behind that careful demeanour shine. Let the man think he was tormenting Lev with new information.

“He took something valuable from me. Some _things,_” Martin corrected. He moved to start shaving the stubble from Lev’s upper lip, and Lev was forced into silence for another stretch of seconds. Martin’s hand rested gently on the front of his throat.

_There were three of them. He’d had them there for_ years_. I couldn't—Lev, I didn't—they were begging me. I tried to set them free, but they didn’t want it, they wouldn’t leave, I couldn't—they _begged_ me—_

“So this is revenge, then. For stealing your things.”

“Ruining them. And it was—for the most part. We were blood brothers, once, and he let me down. I gave him everything, and he chose to betray me.”

Lev's thoughts flickered to the neat white scar across his partner's palm. The way Graham rubbed at it when he was nervous, or stressed. But Lev was of the firm belief that when you're a prolific criminal organisation that makes men—not men, _children, _as Graham had only been sixteen years old when he'd first come into contact with the group—take a blood oath and swear life and limb over to the family… that wasn’t choice.

There were people in the world who didn’t scream in the middle of the night about the things they’d done, didn’t have dreams where other people got hurt and they were helpless to stop it, didn’t try their damndest not to retread their past sins every single day. Those who didn’t leave bed in the morning already remorseful, and tuck themselves in under the weight of their own conscience at night. Who didn’t drink to forget.

_They begged me to take their lives, I didn’t want to, but they wouldn't—_

Finally the shave was over, and Lev gulped down several deep breaths. He reflexively reached up to his cheek, feeling across the smooth skin. He hadn’t been cut, not once.

He looked into the bright, blue eyes of the man for whom regret, and remorse, and empathy were such foreign concepts, it was like trying to breathe dirt.

And Lev saw him for what he was. Just a man who sees people as items, candies, to chew up and spit out.

He could survive this. He had to find a way not to lose himself.

Martin folded the straight razor and tucked it back into its box, along with the rest of the shaving equipment.

“Now. Let’s get you rinsed off, shall we? Take off your clothes.”


	6. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev meets the moment he's been waiting for. (Captivity day 2)  
This chapter contains noncon touching and strong noncon vibes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments - life is a bit too stressful at the moment for me to be able to reply to everything, but please know that I am reading every single one of them. They make me very happy.

“I let you keep your shirt last night, remember? That was the deal. And as good as your begging has gotten—and it has gotten _very _good—if you make me ask again, you’ll regret it.”

Lev had been waiting for this moment since he’d had a been thrown in the boot of a stranger’s car two days ago. Since he’d been driven to fuck-knows-where, and the car had stopped, and the boot had been popped, and he’d looked up with bleary eyes into the face of the very same man in the bathroom with him now.

He had been mentally preparing for it, this one, inevitable scene, but nothing could quite prepare him enough for the dark look of understanding in Martin’s eyes as they caught the way the shirt was peeled off, carefully, Lev trying to cover his chest with his hands as best as possible while removing it. Hyper-aware of the fact that the man was far, far, far too close to him right now.

“What’re you hiding there, love? You holding out on me?”

Lev could feel the little grain of despair, the one he was sure would wear at his insides until they were eroded down to nothing, the raw feeling as it rubbed and bit and stung. He knew it was already too late. The damage was done.

“Just give me some damn privacy,” he said, the false bravado betrayed not only by the quaver in his voice, but by every other molecule in his traitor body as well. He was shaking, now, and he couldn't stop.

Martin ignored him. “Pants now. ‘Atta boy.”

He couldn't even find the strength to swear at Martin, to tell him to get fucked. He didn't want to find out what would happen if he made the man angry. It was more than likely that the knife would just come out, again, and he'd be forced to do it anyway. But, more than all of that... he didn't want his words to be turned back on him.

He was shaking, he was shaking, he was fucking shaking. And he had no other choice but to comply. 

As Lev reluctantly moved one arm across his chest to keep concealing himself, reaching down with the other, Martin grabbed the wrist at his chest and wrenched it away—and when Lev brought his other hand up to defend himself, collected that one too. Easily holding both wrists together with the one, large hand.

“Ah. _Ah. _That’s… _delightful_.” Martin’s free hand flew up to cover his mouth, like a groom seeing his bride in her wedding gown. The way the man’s eyes were darting between the two nipple piercings, drinking in the sight, glittering in the vivid lighting of the bathroom, made Lev want to die of shame right then and there.

“Those are just fucking delightful, Lev.”

Lev couldn’t find words. His jaw was tight, tight, and he could already feel the heat of tears as they formed in his eyes, and he turned his head away, trying to twist his body along with it. Martin’s strong grip and the weight of his stare compressing him into a shape he wasn’t. 

“I bet you got them for our boy Graham, didn’t you? How naughty.”

Lev pulled back on his arms as far as he could go, as far as he was allowed to go, and waited. He felt the calloused hand as it skimmed up and over his ribcage. The thumb, brushing up over one barbell, then trailing across his chest to the other.

“Fucking lovely. I haven’t even done anything to you, but you’re already trembling for me. Need a hand with the pants?”

“I can do it,” Lev managed. His voice was soft and distant, as if from the other side of a thick panel of resin.

The hands on him retreated, and his own fumbled with the zip. Shedding jeans. Underwear. Exposing every vulnerable point on his body. His hands not nearly wide enough to hide everything.

Do what the guy wanted, and do it quickly. That was his mechanism for survival, here, and the only way he could see himself getting out in any way intact. Lev made a promise to himself: anything that he did here, was forced to do here... he wouldn't feel shame for it. It wouldn't be his fault. 

He’d never felt so small and so powerless as when the man corralled him into the shower, pushing him in by the scruff of his neck, but he didn’t have long to dwell on it—the shock of ice-cold water stole his breath for several seconds. It seared across his bare back, and as it did, a laugh cut through the hammering noise of the spray. Mercifully, the water was quick to turn lukewarm, then hot, and Lev was graced with a few idyllic moments, tilting his head back into the stream.

Martin would be watching him. The glass door was still open, and Martin was watching him shower. He tried to push it from his mind, focus on the feeling of the water as it washed away the sticky residue on his face from the shaving cream. He willed his sanity to go along with it, circle down the drain, goodbye.

He didn’t want to think about what was going to happen to him. He didn’t want to think about what pieces of him would still be left to own, after all of this. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to feel. But he did.

And when the water was turned off, the silence left in its wake was overwhelming.


	7. Suspend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev forgets his promise. (Captivity day 2)  
This chapter contains some victim-self blame, and noncon kiss/touch.

The doubled click of Martin’s folding knife being opened and locking into place had Lev’s instant attention. He shook his head, resentful and slightly disbelieving. He'd called that, the knife coming out again soon, and had still felt the surge of dread pooling in his stomach when he saw it revealed. He was too easy, really, too predictable.

But Lev had already known that about himself. He’d always been quick to roll over and expose his belly at the first sign of danger. To yield to shows of force. He could trace that thread through the events of his entire life—maybe, hell, maybe he _wanted_—

He cut that pointy thought off before he could hurt himself with it. No shame—hadn't he just vowed that to himself? No shame. His consent wasn’t given, here. It wasn’t something that could be given from the other end of a weapon. Not… not like this.

Martin beckoned him forward with the flex of one finger, holding out his briefs, but no towel. Lev stepped out of the shower, feeling himself slipping further into that headspace where he’d just… do as he was told. The same half-dissociation he’d been steeping in while being hit with the cane. He could deal with the inevitable self-hatred later. Lev stepped back into his briefs.

“Turn around. Keep your hands by your sides.”

A soft, black piece of cloth was brought over his eyes, and tied tightly behind his head. Lev added one more to the list of things which could be taken from him. He slipped one notch further under.

The soft warmth of lips pressing into the crook of his neck, lapping at the beads of water that clung there in an open-mouthed kiss. “Keeps the suspense going, y'know?” Martin said, the words muttered into skin. “God you smell good, though.”

The dark intonation on the word sent a chill down Lev’s spine. The hand running up and over his stomach did, too. The lips left with a peck, small, chaste, and then he was pushed out of the bathroom, stumbling.

Lev was led by a hand weaving its way through his hair, and a blade hovering somewhere over his kidney. Several turns. The sound of his own bare feet padding against the floor, each followed by a reciprocal click of Martin’s leather shoes.

They stopped after a time, and Lev had no idea where. Any capacity for rational thought he had left was slipping through his fingers like silk.

“On your knees for me. Just like last night, remember? Nice and slow.”

A sob escaped from Lev’s throat. He was disorientated from the blindness and the turning and the fear, and—and, oh god, was the man going to cut him, like he’d so clearly wanted to yesterday? 

Lev lowered himself to his knees, and images flashed up at him behind the blindfold, some memory, some imagined—of Martin’s tongue, sliding up and over the blade, licking away blood, his blood—of the man called Davies, features alight with some kind of twisted pleasure as he rotated the cane in his hands, hunting for a fresh spot to strike—of Graham... and the way his expression hardened, sometimes, when he thought Lev wasn’t looking. Awful, invisible scenes behind those hazel eyes.

Lev struggled to make sense of the slide of the rope it looped around his chest and elbows, once, then twisted and looped again, and again, and then cinched. Twice over each shoulder. Coming down to bind his wrists together. Crossing back up and over his chest, and once around his neck—firm, but not tight. A gentle message.

He was leaned forward and lowered to the ground, face-down. When a hand latched around each of his ankles and tried to force his legs apart, they kicked out spasmodically, the action neither intentional nor even entirely conscious. His body resisting the treatment.

“Shit—don’t,” Martin laughed, “of all the things to fight back against. Don’t struggle, love. You were doing so well.”

Lev twisted further in the grip.

Martin sighed. “I don’t have time for this. Give me a hand.”

He heard footsteps before another set of hands were upon him, yanking his head up and away from the floor. A sharp point finding its way against his pulse. Digging in.

“Come on, now. Do as he says.” Davies’ low drawl sounded above him.

The knife found the release latch to his legs, which instantly relaxed with the force of the command. Lev grit his teeth—yeah, they had his number. So fucking easy.

His legs were spread and bent upwards, and something that felt like a metal bar was wedged in behind his knees. More rope, securing his thighs to his calves this time. Immobilising them around the rod. Hogtied.

Lev could barely think, except to register that one notion. He could barely move. He could only wait, listening for several long moments to the men moving around him.

Then the rope pulled tight, and Lev was _hoisted_. All of his muscles contracted simultaneously with the shock of being quickly lifted up and away from the ground—_shit, shit, shit_—his weight cradled by the rope, suspended by several anchor points, at his back, his arms, in the middle of the rod affixed to his legs. He could feel the prickle of his still-drying skin as he was rocked, fresh air caressing his body with each motion. The click of Martin’s shoes stepping closer, and a gloved hand caressed his cheek.

“You know, I was going to give you back to Pierce, after this. All lovely and ruined. Let him see what his impertinence has earned him—teach him that when he fucked me, he should have made damn sure he fucked me dead.”

Lev’s mouth was dry, so dry, but the conviction in Graham’s words had resonated in his bones, and he could hear the echoes still.

_I love you, Lev. I’d do anything to protect you._

“He’ll find me.” Lev's voice was much more confident of that fact than what he felt.

“You’d better hope he doesn’t. Because then he will have officially pushed me beyond the level of interference that I’m willing to regard as cute.” The subtle threat was enough to knock the remaining air from Lev’s lungs, and it felt as though the ropes squeezed in to fill the empty space.

“It was quite reckless of me,” Martin continued. “Stealing you again. I’ve put a lot on hold to get you here—anyway. I was going to give you back to him.”

Lev felt the cold gloves as they found their way to his exposed chest. Pressing in. Massaging. He hated how he could do nothing, nothing to stop it, nothing at all, except for whimper pathetically at the touch.

“But last night? The way you took the cane so willingly for me? So pliable. So easily overwhelmed.” His nipples were tweaked with those clever, awful fingers, and Lev felt an unwelcome thrill of arousal sear through his body.

It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault.

“I just… I don’t think he deserves you,” Martin explained, an escalating intensity rippling through his voice. “I don’t think he can give you what you need. And like this… all tied up, and pretty, and pierced? God, Lev Alexander. You make me want to be reckless.

“You’re so fucking good, Lev,” Martin said, “and I think I’ll keep you.”


	8. Slice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev hangs out for a while. (Captivity day 2)

It must have been an hour before Lev heard the sounds of several people filtering into the room, chatting and lively. He was still suspended there, dangling—a fucking Lev piñata, stuffed full to brimming with anxiety and dread. Biting back the urge to struggle, because despite how tightly the ropes were wound around him, he was hyper-aware of the fact that if this contraption gave way he’d fall straight on his face, and very likely break his nose on the floor.

Every sensation was disjointed, his attention too fractured to pay attention to all of it at once. The twinge of his right thigh, that was starting to cramp. His nose, rubbing against the blindfold, starting to itch. The clinking of bottles, a woman speaking, and the chorus of laughter that went up. The ominous creak of the rope against whatever supports were above him.

He felt exposed, he _was_ exposed, and he was starting to panic. He was panicking. His mind was racing. He needed it to stop, please.

He heard Martin’s voice, speaking loudly—not in English, but in some kind of... Norwegian, maybe? That authoritative tone still carried through, though, despite the phoneme changes. He was giving orders. Or instructions. Or a toast...

Martin switched back to English, partway through a sentence—“and you’ve probably already spotted it as you entered, but over there is… well, let’s call it a party favor. Enjoy him. I definitely plan to. But guests first, of course.”

Lev couldn't help but feel like the language shift was for his own benefit. 

A murmur, several voices overlapping. Then—“what did he do?” A female voice.

Martin answered in a long string of whatever language it was, slipping back into his usual American accent for the words _Graham Pierce, _and then back into the lilting syllables again. One person whistled, low, and Lev couldn’t figure out what the fuck thatwas about, exactly, but… he had several guesses as to what the Martin had told them.

He heard footsteps, sensed movement somewhere off to his side. Someone was suddenly very close, and he flinched at the brief flicker of a shadow across the top of the blindfold. 

The first bite of something cold and sharp running across his shoulder, pressingin deep_, _ripped a whispered and breathless _haahh,_ _fuck,_ from him. He jerked in the ropes. The hot trail of blood hadn’t even finished travelling down his arm before another slice was made, placed just below his ribcage.

A cut across his thigh, fresh blood. His abdomen, now, stinging, bleeding. His forearm, bleeding. He gasped through the lancing pain, each subsequent score dragging meaningless sounds out of him. It was all made worse by how little he was able to anticipate where the knife was headed next. If he wasn't panicking already, he definitely is now. They cut him again, and again, and again, until he completely lost track of where they all were, and one stinging line melted into the next.

Martin’s voice called out from far away. “You can talk to him. Or touch him. He likes it when you do.”

“No,” Lev groaned weakly as a thumb ran over his bottom lip, settling under his jaw to hold it.

“You like this, do you?” said a male voice. “Just like this?” Fingers scratching at his scalp. It felt almost—

A splash, and Lev let out an anguished cry as liquid was poured over his back and shoulders. It was liquid _fire_, and the stinging in each cut magnified by the chemical tenfold. The fumes clogged his nostrils, and he gagged in earnest with the shock of the sensation, and—_alcohol, it was alcohol_—and tremors were wracking his body. He felt as though malfunctioning.

“No, nh, nuh, no, no, no more, no more, no more.” A busted, faltering machine. _Please, stop, no more. _He heard a chuckle as the fingers retreated from his hair.

A sharp slap across the face, and Lev was barely coherent, hardly caring as blood started to well within his mouth, dribbling out over his lips. It wasn’t as if he could stop it from doing so.

The pain reduced him to a feeble, shivering mess of raw feeling. Each cut on his body throbbing with the beat of his heart, the ache of the slap still echoing in his head… but he was left alone. Only the _drip, drip, drip _of blood and alcohol splashing against the floor to keep him company.

After what must have been minutes, Lev felt a firm set of gloved hands on him, tilting his face up.

“Got you all cleaned up just to get you dirty again, huh? No matter. We can shower again later.”

“Uhn, mmh, Mar—“

Lev was cut off by the press of lips against his own, a tongue sweeping through his open mouth, over his teeth. A muffled moan—from whom, he couldn’t tell.

When the other man broke the kiss, Lev tried again. “Martin, can’t, I can’t, I can’t take it, I can't—”

“You’re doing so well, baby. So good for me, yeah? So fucking good.”

“My leg, hurts, hurts so bad, please…” Lev could feel it violently spasm, the muscles in his thigh painfully tight.

“I’m not letting you down yet. Not until my guests leave.”

He sensed that the request would carry its own repercussions, later. His body stung all over, but most of all, could feel the cramp getting worse, and worse, and he just needed some kind of relief. Anything at all.

“I just, could you, just, massage, please, _please._” He didn't know who spoke, but his mouth was the one that had moved. He'd felt it.

A small hum, the meaning of which Lev couldn’t determine, and he was spun slowly. The ropes around his legs were adjusted, and those same fingers that had worked to torment him earlier were working into the muscle, trying to find the point that would ease the knot of tension there. Lev winced as the cramp intensified, but was able to relax, slightly, as it abated. Still there, but much better.

And for a brief moment, the shame and humiliation in Lev’s pain-addled brain was tinted with the colour of something else, as well. Something darker.

Gratitude.


	9. Shellfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin learns something new about his boy. (Captivity day 2)

His guests were reasonably smashed, and Martin himself was feeling the warmth of a suitable buzz, but Davies hadn’t had anything to drink, yet. His man had been standing to attention beside him the entire night, and Martin hadn’t missed the way his eyes would flicker to the corner of the dining room every so often, over to where his boy was hanging in the rigging. Limply now.

Who’d have thought that a macgyvered pulley system, some high-vaulted ceilings, and a few figure-eighted abseiling knots could look so damn good? He made a mental note to make some kind of permanent setup, later.

“Well, Davies. You cock-blocked yourself pretty solidly, yesterday. Would you like another go?”

“I wouldn’t say no, sir.”

“Good man. Here. I’ve got something you might enjoy.”

Martin opened one of the glass corner cabinets and produced a black, metal, roughly cylindrically-shaped rod. He swung it down until it telescoped into its full length, twirling it a few times over his thumb and forefinger. Far be it from him to deprive his house-guests of a little extra grandiosity. And they didn’t let him down, either, a few whistles and whoops scattered about the large dining table, and from the sofa in the adjacent room.

“Go _easy _with this. You’ll sooner kill him than break it, and I saw how hard you were itching to go with the cane.”

The tiny gleam of pride that the playful jab brought out into the other man’s eyes was positively charming. But Martin wanted to see how well he could follow instructions.

“And I don’t necessarily want any broken bones, either,” he continued. “He’s already all warmed up for you, so only a couple. I want to see some bruises on his thighs. Then make sure he has something to eat.” He flipped the baton one-eighty degrees and caught it by the tipped end, holding the handle outwards.

As Davies wandered over to the rigging, trailed by a small gaggle of curious businessmen and women, Martin settled himself into one of the dining chairs. He turned his attention to the negotiations being made around the table.

The sound of impact, and a wail. Martin smiled.

Thankfully his guests were all getting along fine without his direct interference, because _damn_, he couldn’t fucking seem to focus right now. So this was how Davies had felt. 

His mind kept drifting to the thought of just how well his boy was doing, because, honestly? He had totally thought that Lev would have snapped by now. Men beefier than him had, babbling insensibly as soon as they saw the flash of his blade.

But no. Even the knife, something he’d been intensely afraid of at first. Even after being stripped of his shirt and pants, something he had pro-actively put himself under the cane to stave off, last night. Even as he was currently, bound and displayed and being ruthlessly beaten with a metal baton in front of a room of people that he couldn’t see. Who were relishing in his feeble moans of pain.

Lev had taken it all with a kind of passive resignation. Hadn’t protested much at all. His begging had changed as well, from pleading not to be hurt, to accepting that he _would _be hurt again soon, and just asking so politely for a few extra moments of reprieve. That little trick he had with the detachment from his surroundings probably helped, but… he didn’t seem to be in that, right now. He was still verbal. Relatively.

What was it, then? An exceptionally high pain tolerance? Some kind of authority kink? Whatever it was, he wanted to find out.

And the begging. Oh, the begging. Martin wanted to be begged for a massage every single fucking day.

He had finally dragged his attention back to the discussion at hand, some kind of new merger, when he heard a high, panicked call of his name, followed by an uncertain “Boss?”

Davies had the baton in his left hand and a canapé in his right, and a frantically struggling Lev in front of him.

“Sweetheart?”

“Please, _fuck_, don’t let him feed me that, I can’t _see_ but it’s seafood, it smells like it and I’ve got a fucking shellfish allergy, please don’t it’ll fucking kill me, _please—“_

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he put both of his hands on Lev’s cheeks, “listen to me. He’s not going to—“

“I don’t wanna die,” Lev gasped.

“You won’t.”

“Please don’t let me die like that.”

Martin swallowed. He stroked thumbs over Lev’s cheekbones. “I won’t.”

His boy fell silent, trembling. Letting his head be cradled by Martin’s hands.

Davies coughed, awkwardly, giving his boss the grimace of a man who’d fucked up his job twice, unwittingly, in within the space of twenty-four hours. Martin grinned, pointing at him and mouthing the words _you’re getting a raise_.

The rest of the party passed without further incident, and he'd left Lev up there until he calmed down, but had called away his patrons. Once the last of the guests had left, Martin gave instructions for Davies—_but for God’s sake wash your damn hands first—_to lower Lev from the rigging and untie him. Unite, not cut. He’d wash the blood from the rope later. Reuse and recycle, and all that.

After which, Lev was led to sit at Martin’s feet, looking about ready to pass out. So much so that when he put a hand through brown locks, guiding his boy’s head to rest against his thigh, he was met with no resistance.

He didn’t bother speaking to him. No matter how much he wanted to whisper his praise, his desire, other sweet nothings—his words probably wouldn’t be heard, anyway.

He examined the slices left all over from his trusted guests. The lovely purpling on the tops of his thighs, Davies’ careful handiwork. The slight tremble his body made on exhale. The bare back, and the freckle-dusted shoulders.

He carded fingers through the sweat-damp hair. Thinking.


	10. Civil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham has some questions. (This is a flash-forward, of events occurring at the same time as day 9 of Lev's captivity.)
> 
> This chapter contains non-named character death, torture threats, and a brief misgendering mention.

Graham Pierce was being civil.

“If I take this off, and the first thing that comes out of your mouth isn't a street address? I swear to god—I will fucking kneecap you.”

He reached out to the first of the three lined up, tied-up men, keeping the gun pointed at his face, and ripped off the duct tape over his mouth.

“What makes you think that—”

Pierce aimed down, and fired. A strangled shriek reverberated off the walls of the storage facility.

“Son of a bitch,” the man screeched, eyes crazed, “you motherfucking cocksu—”

A second shot, and the man keeled over. A bullet hole between his eyes.

Next in the line-up was a younger guy, mid-twenties and already balding slightly, a little more jumpy and a lot more blood-splattered than the first. He looked down at his dead co-worker with red, irritated eyes, and back up at Pierce.

“What did I _just _say?”

The three, now two men had been hauling duffel bags full of heroin out of the dark, dingy storage facility when they’d been hit with a canister of tear gas and overpowered. Pierce had been told yesterday by one of Martin’s _customers_—in hysterical screams, a knife lodged in their gut—that there would only be a small window before the men would be packed and gone. Washing the blood from his hands, Pierce had thanked god that Martin was in the habit of taking customers who were mostly narcissists and sycophants. Much easier to get information out of people so self-interested, much more so than the Family, with all of their nonsense about loyalty. They’d hauled ass to the location, the first lead they’d had.

Not one of the three, now two men in front of him seemed like mob. Which meant this was a side-hustle, the men likely small-time gangbangers that Martin had paid off, or something. He could work with that. He had no choice.

“Ever been waterboarded before?” Pierce said, getting down on one knee, leaning an elbow on it casually. The man’s eyes grew wider, almost to bulging. “Because I have. How about you, Stenberg?”

“Sure. One of the worst experiences of my life.”

“Right.”

The man started talking before Pierce had even finished peeling off the tape across his lips. “Look, my dude,” he stuttered, “I promise, I don’t fuckin’ know where the boss is holed up, he doesn’t tell us. He doesn’t even talk to us in person. We take the bags to another site, and leave them. Trust.”

Pierce gave him a look. “Well that’s just fucking unfortunate for you, isn't it. Hey Stenberg?”

“Yeah?”

“Bucket. Back of my car.”

“What? No, I don't—“ The man was silenced by the barrel of the gun pressing to his lips. He looked over at his other hostage, large build and a blond undercut.

“You don’t want to be the last one alive, trust me. Because I can’t kill whomever is the last one alive.”

He could feel old habits surging, the bluster and careless arrogance stepping forth and taking over. He couldn’t say he missed it, exactly, and he knew better than anyone that torture doesn't get you anywhere—but couldn’t deny that it felt good to channel his anger towards something other than himself, for once. It felt _damn _good, and he hated it.

But, he’d made a promise. One he intended to keep. Even if it killed him. Even if it killed everyone. Pierce had made a promise, and he was getting desperate.

After a few minutes, Stenberg hauled a grunting, struggling individual into the storage unit, one arm wrenched up behind their back, their jaw clamped shut in a headlock with one of the burly woman’s massive arms.

Pierce smoothed the tape back over the man’s mouth, and stood. “That’s… not a bucket.”

“No, it’s a little cockroach I caught trying to sneak through the floorboards,” smirked Stenberg. Despite the biceps pressed up and against their neck, Winters was managing a glower in Pierce’s direction.

If nothing else, at least they now had a potential bargaining chip. Winters had always taken jobs from Martin on the regular, followed him around after he'd become less mob and more private sector.

The scar on the inside of Pierce’s forearm still twinged sometimes, from where Winters had put a cigarette out on him way back when. He'd mocked the hell out of their choice of pronouns, though, so. Fair cop.

“Last time we talked, you told me that I don’t respect you,” Pierce said, gesturing with the gun. “Well, you probably won’t believe me on this, but you’re wrong. I do respect you—I don’t fucking _like _you, but I do respect you. More importantly, I know you respect yourself too much to die here, in this dingy-ass box, while lying to protect a piece of shit like Martin Viklund-Reid.”

He gave Stenberg a nod. She loosened her grip.

Winters glanced down at the body on the floor, blood slowly creeping out from underneath it. When they spoke their voice was slightly hoarse, their eyes steely. “I’ll take you to him. Let them go—they don’t know shit.”

“Perfect. Stenberg, you can keep these two for a couple of days, then set them loose. But just... make sure they're not running too fast to say hi to anyone, yeah?"

Stenberg cracked the knuckles of each of her hands, smiling. “With pleasure."


	11. Spread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev becomes his. (Captivity day 3)

“I don’t want you to think this is some kind of a punishment. It’s not.”

_Isn’t it?_ Lev said around the leather bit, the sides of his nose wrinkling. It wasn’t too tight, necessarily, just firm, but it was still making his jaw ache. Far be it from Martin to let one of his monologues be interrupted.

“No. It’s not punishment, because that would mean I didn’t approve of your behaviour. Or that I was trying to control you. Or something like that.”

Spread out face-down across the metal table like this was a much harsher treatment than what he was used to, the floor downright comfortable by comparison. Arms and legs secured by thick straps, he was tied down tight. Barely able to move.

It really didn’t matter whether he had his eyes open, or shut. There was no stopping Martin’s words as they crept into his ears, and stayed there, and stuck. Like flypaper. Lev settled for pressing his nose against the table, and staring straight ahead into the dulled reflection of his own eyes.

“In truth, I love it when you surprise me. I love it when you struggle, and I love it when you’re quiet. I love it when you scream, when you sob, when you bite your tongue. It’s all just...” Martin trailed. He was speaking from somewhere just outside of Lev’s peripheral vision, still. “Mouthwatering. That’s the only way I can describe it.”

The fervour of it was alarming. Like some kind of fucked up recital of a Dr. Seuss book—but he supposed that was exactly the kind of escalation he should have come to expect from the man, by now. Theatrical, and heavy-handed, and announced in such a way as to fluster and unnerve. The same reason he had classical piano music playing the background, right now.

“You didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual—but I’m enjoying learning the things that make you tick. That make you squirm, or gasp, or moan. For instance, that little finger motion you walk yourself through, when you’re just about to disconnect from reality—is that conscious, or automatic? Don’t tell me. I want to find out.”

Lev raised both of his eyebrows, the only range of motion he had been left with to express the litany of _what the fuck, what the fuck, what the everloving fuck_ that was playing endless loops in his brain, right now. He pulled both wrists against the straps, muscles straining. Nothing. He bit down on the leather, twisted his body from side to side. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

“I’m going to find all of your hidden little buttons and knobs. Maybe ones that even you didn’t know existed… wouldn’t that be fun?" Martin's voice was bouncing off the walls, hitting him one after the other. "Shit, babe, I’ve never felt this way about anyone, before. Honestly. I didn’t think it was possible. And I guess that’s why… I just want to make things official.”

Was he drunk? Was he acting? Was that what this was? Just some other kind of mindfuck—Lev froze, back-pedaling. _Official?_ He tried to look up and around, but a hand was already in his hair, gripping firmly. Lev winced at the sharp pull against his scalp.

“The first gift I’ve got for you, I want you to feel before you see. Had it custom made, just for you. It looks good. You’re not gonna like it, at first, but… I think you’ll come around.”

A gentle pressure of some material sliding across the front of his neck, and a buckle being done up at the back. Lev swallowed against the collar, feeling the cold metal of the D-ring press into his clavicle. Trembling, now, in every limb.

“The second… well, this one I think I’ll let you see, first.”

Lev raised his head. And even if he could say them, Lev had no words left.

Martin was holding the object in one outstretched hand, like a single rose. Both stem and petals made of iron, weaving through and around themselves in an intricate design. A circle, with a curlicue letter nestled inside. Already red-hot.

“Don’t shake your head. You can take it—I know you can. Be brave for me, baby.”

For the endless seconds in which the branding iron was pressed between his shoulder blades, he was out of his mind. Beyond words, beyond thought. It racked through him, and stripped him to the bone.

“That’s it, darling, let it all out.”

He started to cry.

“You’re mine, now. My good boy.”

And he cried, and he cried, and he cried.


	12. Snuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham finds the tape. (Flash-forward: Day 9 of Lev's captivity).  
This chapter contains major noncon vibes.

_I’m more of a lover than a fighter._

That was how Lev had described himself, using almost those exact words, on their second date. In that teasing tone of his, looking up Graham with big, brown eyes—before giving a roguish wink, and biting his lip.

But now wasn’t the time for reverie. Pierce pushed Winters forward, keeping the gun pressed firmly into their spine. “You’d better hope that your boss hasn’t killed him,” he muttered.

Winters flashed him a look, but in the dim twilight he couldn’t tell what it was, exactly. “Who…?”

“You fucking know who.” He didn’t receive further response to that.

They had arrived at the safehouse within two hours of leaving the storage units, to nothing. Not a goddamned thing. No guards, no cars, no signs of life. He’d swept the perimeter as best as he could by himself, leaving his hostage zip-tied to the steering wheel. Expecting a trap, but it looked like the place had been emptied and cleaned. Scooped out like a pumpkin.

Impatient, he hadn’t been able or willing to delay any longer. With a hand on their shoulder and the gun at their back, Pierce steered the two of them into the building proper. When he heard the sound of someone crying, followed by a loud, sharp noise, he urged them to walk _faster, __for fuck’s sake_.

The only item of furniture left in the main living room was a steel table, with a clunky old TV perched on top of it, already turned on. And once Pierce came within viewing distance, the image splashed up on the screen stole the wind from Pierce’s sails, the breath from his lungs.

It was unmistakably Lev. Lev, on his knees. Lev, forehead pressed to the ground, arms stretched out across the floor as if in worship. Lev, beaten so badly. A man standing over him, bringing a thick, braided flogger down on his already bruise-blackened body again, and again.

Pierce recognised the unhealed brand instantly, the signature curling _M, _seared into his boyfriend’s back. But, he could barely concentrate on that. Right now, his mind was consumed with the single thought—Please. Please. Let this not be a snuff film.

The camera trembled, and then was lifted, and Pierce didn’t have to see or hear his smug, drawling voice to know exactly who the cameraman was. Moving closer, panning slowly across the scene on the floor.

A gloved hand reached out from behind the camcorder, coaching Lev up into a kneeling position, fingers hooking under the black band around his neck—a collar, dear sweet lord, a collar_—_to pull his head up. Both of Lev’s hands came up to curl around the forearm, as if trying to use it to brace himself, keep himself from falling. Through the sound of his own hammering pulse, Pierce could just hear the soft, murmured words coming through the speakers of the setup. Saying... “it’s fine to make noises. Love your little whimpers.”

Pierce’s heart clenched as brown eyes flicked up, and straight into the camera. As if looking at him. Into him. The camera shuddered with the force of the next blow. Lev’s mouth dropped open into an O, eyes unfocused. Fresh tears rolling down his face. Almost panting from the exertion.

A gloved thumb found its way into Lev’s open mouth. Pressing down on the tongue. Withdrawing before the flogger landed again, and Lev’s teeth snapped together, face filling with pain once more—but now, at this angle, it was _worse_. Like some kind of x-rated home video. A perfect POV of his boyfriend’s torture. He felt like a dirty old man just for connecting those two dots, even though he’d bet every dollar he had on that being exactly how Martin intended it to look.

Almost pornographic. To film something like this. To watch it.

He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t turn away.

Martin slipped his hand under Lev’s jaw. “Go on, no need to hold it back. No need to pretend. Just give in to it.”

The next blow ripped a strangled keen through his partner’s gritted teeth.

“Yeah, _fuck_, that’s it. Just like that, baby.” Martin’s voice was slightly strained, an edge to it, as if, as if, as if he was—

Pierce couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

The camera whirled, screen blurring in a mix of colour as a bottle was retrieved from the table, then returning to Lev. The cap was unscrewed with one deft hand, flicking off and out of sight, discarded. “Open up.”

The bottle was tipped against Lev’s lips, slowly, then all at once. A splutter, and water poured out of the sides of his mouth, and down his chest.

A violation. Every little part, in and of itself, a violation.

“Fuck me,” Martin breathed. “That face… fucking obscene. Now I know how Graham feels all of the time. God, that's good.”

Graham felt like he could gouge his own eardrums out.

A flurry on the screen, after which, the display went blank.

After a long stretch of tense silence, Pierce reached down and pressed the eject button on the DVD player. Then, once he’d retrieved the disc, he put one hand on top of the clunky old TV, tipping it forward. It teetered off the table and hit the ground, the screen shattering, tiny shards of broken glass fanning out from underneath its corpse.

Winters had their hands over their mouth. They could have run, while he had been nearly incapacitated watching the video. They could have attacked him.

But, there they stood. Eyes wide, looking pale.

“I didn’t know.” Their voice was stiff with shock. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. That's your partner? Christ...”

Pierce didn’t respond. Instead he looked over the disc between his fingertips, reading the label that was written across it. A casual scrawl.

_Part 1 of 12._


	13. Steep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev's days start to blur together. (Captivity Days 4-7).  
Explicit noncon in this one.

“What does this mean?”

Fingers trailed the circumference of the mark.

“That I am yours.”

The breathed reply.

A call, and a response.

-

It was routine, by now.

Kettle at seventy degrees. The way he’d been shown. Just hot enough to steep a green tea. Not really enough to burn anyone. Not in any meaningful capacity. Bag for two minutes, leave to cool for another ten. During which time, he’d get out a glass, and a bottle. Whichever was requested—second shelf, fourth bottle from the right. First shelf, far left. Second shelf, second from the right.

He’d sit at Martin’s feet, and warm his hands on the sides of the white mug. They always seemed to be cold, nowadays. Cold, and shaking. He might be touched, warm fingers trailing through his hair and down his spine. He might not.

He was never deprived of this. On the rare, rare, so rare occasions when he grit his teeth and refused to carry out an order, Martin wouldn’t take their ritual away. He’d sigh, and say _that’s disappointing, __love_, and maybe the pain the next day would be a bit worse. Maybe much worse. But once it was over, he’d be bundled up and carried to the kitchen, away from the room where the pain was kept. To serve a drink, and then make one for himself.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that was part of it. Somehow.

But.

He needed the comfort of it. He needed the routine. He tried to tell himself it was coping. He wasn’t sure if that was what it could be called. So he stopped trying to figure it out.

He let the pain cleanse him, and the soothing touches ground him. It was habit. It was instinct. After a while, it made all of it easier.

It wasn’t as if his brain had decided this was too much, and had locked most of his consciousness away. It was as if parts of him were packing up and leaving. Walking out of the space that was his body, and off into the night. To stay with some distant relative, until the day that the house in which they used to love and be loved was no longer fraught with… this. The parts which remained waving goodbye from bus stops, train station platforms, airport terminals, until they too sensed their time was drawing near.

He needed the routine.

After a while, he started to learn the names of them. Second shelf, fourth bottle from the right—Highland Park. First shelf, far left—Glenfiddich. Second shelf, second from the right—Barrell.

But the name he cried in the dark had changed. It was better to let that go, too, when it left. Whittled away, leaving a void to be filled. And it was.

Sleeping in _h__is_ bed. Waking up from nightmares, of the things that he’d had done to him. Of other things, that hadn’t, but felt as if they had. Waking up screaming. Waking up in pain.

When Lev cried, he cried _Martin. Please._

And in hushed whispers, he was answered. The warm, familiar smell curling around him. Arms holding him tight.

Murmuring, _what’s wrong, __baby__?_

Murmuring, _hush, now. __I’ve got you. __Go back to sleep._

Murmuring, _I’m so fucking glad that you’re mine._

_-_

“What does this mean?”

A hand around his throat.

“That my voice is yours.”

An admission.

He’d woken up, and not known how many days he’d been here.

-

The pill had addled him, and he could barely tell which way was up. Unable to distinguish mouth, from hand, from anything else digging into him. His back was against something hard and moving. Registered, in some dim corner of his brain, that he was either having a panic attack, or a fever dream, or the worst drug interaction of his life. Maybe all three at once… lost, in roiling sensation. A blur of colour.

There were fingers playing over his body, rolling each pierced nipple, one leaving to be replaced by a wet sucking and pulling and biting. Cool air across his chest. A tongue flicked across the barbell, and he gasped. Rhythmic, _dirty._ He arched into it. Hands at his waist, and his neck, and his thighs, and his cock, and—two sets of hands? Three?

A gloved hand wrapped itself around his jaw, steadying him from behind.

“Easy, love. I’m here. I’m right here.”

“I don’t,” a sob, “want this—”

“Yes, you do. You want this—” a hot breath and the slight scratch of stubble against his neck, his ear “—more than anything you’ve ever wanted before. You want this, Lev, boy of my dreams, because I want this. I want you to feel… so. Fucking. Good.”

There were fingers inside him, pumping, scissoring, fucking into him, and a whimper - surely not from his own mouth. They found their mark, and he moaned a _no _from deep within his throat, throwing his head back. Feeling the jolt of awful, inescapable arousal scorch through his body, staining him like nothing ever had before. The nudge of the man in front, lining himself up.

“Let it out for me, baby. I want to hear all those pretty little sounds you make. Remember what I told you at the start of all of this…” the voice in his ear dropped into a deep rumble. “I’m going to give you what you need. Well. He is, at least.”

Firm arms wrapped around him, absorbing every thrust and shudder that wracked his body, slowly drawing tighter as the pressure peaked inside of him and he came, crying. When the men finished with him, he lay curled on the floor. Frightened, and humiliated. Fingers stroking through his hair.

-

“And this?”

The slight tug of the collar.

“That my body is yours.”

"Good boy."

He’d lost track of himself, somewhere down the line.

-

“Knees for me, baby,” said Martin. “Open your mouth.”

It was easier not to be in his body as soon as it started to happen. To be there but not really, uncouple his mind from his body. Dislocate himself. As soon as Lev felt the weight and heat of it on his tongue, he was out of there.

No use to argue. No use to struggle. Just let it happen. Get it done.

It wasn’t like the nights—those stretched as if they’d last forever, filled with hurt and other, worse things he never wanted to feel at the hands of his… his mind recoiled from the word. His captor.

No—this was quick and painless, and once the man was satisfied Lev was usually allowed to just sit there and drift, for a few precious minutes. In this one, he could even listen to the sound of the rain pattering down on the roof, and imagine lying up there, out in it. Let the storm soak him clean, ridding him of the dried blood, and sweat, and the fingerprints all over him.

How deep did this go? He wondered if he could wade out far enough to lose sight of the shoreline. Just walk away from himself, and the terrible aches that bore down upon him in every waking moment. To sleep, perchance to drown.

And if there was a god, and if she ever saw fit to answer his prayers, she’d grant him that one small mercy. 

Please. Please. Please.

For now he waded through the shallows, and hoped he’d never come back.

-

“That my life is yours.”

What life was this?

“Love hearing you say that.”

There was a gravity to it, and every second he was pulled in deeper, inexorably, deeper.

-

“Who can touch you?”

“Only you.”

Call, response—

“Who can break you?”

“Only you.”

Was this forever?

“Whose is this?”

“Yours.”

His. Like everything.

“That’s right, love. That's right.”


	14. Sofa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: Graham makes a realisation. (Prior to captivity).

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“W—hh?” Lev responded through a half-chewed bite.

“How can you eat that?”

Swallowing the rest of it, Lev leaned against the kitchen counter. “With my mouth?”

“No, that's—you _know_ that’s not what I meant—it’s the fact that you’ve got like an inch of Vegemite on the damn thing like, like that’s normal,” said Graham, gesturing at the slice of toast on the cutting board.

Lev countered lightning quick, as usual. “I think you mean two-point-five-four centimetres, and I don’t see what the problem is.”

Graham’s eyes narrowed. “I’m gonna two-point-five-four centimetres _you _in a second,” he said.

“That doesn’t make any seaa—agh!”

Carrying his giggling boyfriend in a firefighter’s hoist, Graham spun around in the living room to search for a suitable landing pad for his quarry, throwing it down on the worn, green couch before collapsing on top of it himself. He peppered the man’s face with feather-light kisses, and licked at a black smudge of Vegemite on the bottom lip, and pressed back in for a long kiss.

“You’re now formally banned from making your own breakfast,” Graham announced.

Lev tilted his chin back in cool defiance, leaning on his elbows. “What’re you, the condiments police? Are you saying you’ll cook every day?”

“Yes, and sure. Less burning that way.”

An indignant scoff. “I’m a good cook!”

“You’re good at a lot of things, but you can’t cook for shit.”

“You’re wrong,” said Lev. “Adorable, and wrong. But I still like you.”

And Graham, with his blood pumping, and his face burning, and his whole being falling so utterly, completely, helplessly head-over-heels for the man underneath him, would be damned if he let anything stop at _like__. _He kissed him again, and then, pulling back, looked into his eyes. They darted between his own.

“You’re gorgeous, and I think I’m in love with you.”

He let the words settle, drinking in Lev’s stunned silence, feeling no small inkling of pride at the fact that, for once, _he’d_ been the one to render _Lev _speechless.

Lev’s expression grew sincere, as if he could see into Graham’s head, see how much he must have meant the words, to say them so cleanly, so freely. To declare them, without hesitation. “Say it again,” he said.

“I’m in love with you.” Graham won another kiss.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

A kiss.

“I love you. I _love_ you, Lev.”

“I love you too,” Lev responded. Beaming.


	15. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin enjoys his cereal. (Captivity day 8).

Martin was eating breakfast to the sounds of his boy struggling to breathe. The little thumps of his feet hitting the floor, thrashing whenever the pressure was increased on his neck.

He’d already cinched the leather collar two notches tighter, and that alone had Lev fighting for every inhale. He’d watched him wriggle in the restraints, shoulders hitching up as if to fend off the squeeze of it, but the hands tied behind his back meant that no, he wasn’t allowed to touch. Just feel.

The collar was a decent start. But for the rest of the way, Martin had wanted _control._

Martin looked down between his legs, at his boot and where it rested against his boy’s neck. Locking eyes with Lev’s tearful, beseeching ones. Watching the urgency as it flashed across his face.

“That’s a really good look on you.”

He lifted his foot and Lev gasped, pitching to the side as if trying to roll away, but was prevented from doing so by the other foot that was on top of his chest. He took in as much oxygen as he was able, in long and slender trickles. Body warping with the effort of it. Limbs tangled in and around the legs of the chair. Beautiful.

He couldn’t decide which he liked better—the feeble yet desperate struggling, or the grateful, ravenous gulps of air. After a few beats, Martin pressed his boot down again.

He’d finished three-quarters of the bowl of muesli when his phone buzzed. Good timing. He straightened to answer the text message, planting his feet on the floor, letting the boy take a breather. He deserved it.

As Martin brought the spoon to his lips, he heard the soft _pat _of a drop of milk hitting his boot—but before he could reach down to wipe it clean, a movement made him hesitate. He watched in fascination as a tentative tongue poked out… and started to lap at the milk.

Martin let out a broken groan. “Fuuuck.” That was an accident he definitely wanted to happen again. “Every time I think I know you, baby, you manage to surprise me.”

He tipped the spoon, spilling more milk and muesli onto his boot, and Lev flinched as some of it splashed onto his face. He looked up, uncertainty in those big, brown eyes, and a dawning of _oh god, __oh fuck, __what have I done?_

“Go on. Lick it all up, and then I’ll loosen the collar for you. As a reward.”

Eyelids fluttered shut, the tears spilling freely from them now. And then, ever dutiful, the boot was cleaned. Good as new. The little pink tongue working quickly.

And that was one of the things he loved about him—if given a task, he’d complete it. Throw his weight behind it. Every single time, with such little resistance that it was captivating.

He’d have to play around with that particular flavour of shame. Later. Right now, they had places to be.

True to his word, Martin picked him up off the floor, wiping the rest of the milk from his lips with a gloved thumb, undoing and redoing the buckle of the collar to its original state.

“Ready for the room today?”

Lev nodded. His eyes saying _please, n__o._

“That’s my boy.”


	16. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev wrestles with his own obedience. (Captivity Day 9.)

The chain attached to his—to the collar around his neck was only about a foot in length, not quite long enough to allow him to sit up fully.

As a result, Lev had two options—he could lean forward at about a thirty-degree angle, leaving some slack in the chain but putting pressure on his already sore knees. Or, he could shuffle so that the metal eyelet to which the chain was affixed was sitting further in between his thighs. That position lessened the pain in his knees, but also meant he was hunched over to stop himself from being choked. Which, in turn, had the added side-effect of stretching the skin around the still-healing burn on his back.

The whole dilemma was uncomfortable, at best. He’d lie down, except for the fact that he’d been told to sit on his heels _just like this, darling_. So, he shuffled back, and forward, and back again.

It must have been hours since the man had left. Plenty of time to think.

Really, he was almost thankful for the blooming gaps in his memory. The brief flashes he did have were either of pain, or violation. But right now Lev felt lucid, for the first time in a long while. As far as he could tell he had woken up in an entirely different house, though really, it was impossible for him to be certain.

He had vague, vague recollections of being force-fed a pill after having the shit beaten out of him, again, yesterday. When he’d come to, groggy and dizzy as hell, his surroundings were completely new. New room, new people, and what seemed to be some non-thug occupants, as well—cleaners, cooks. Instead of a small, ramshackle safehouse, this looked like an actual place where people lived. Bustling with activity, comparatively.

He’d even been given a decent meal this morning, and it had tasted _good. _A pan-fried omelet with ripe cherry tomatoes, mushrooms and spinach. He could have cried at the taste of a fresh vegetable.

But, then he’d been put in this new room, and chained to the floor, so. Overall, a mixed bag.

Lev shifted again. _Fuck_, his legs were hurting though.

It wasn’t the humiliation of being chained down like a dog that was getting to him, although he knew it probably should be. No—the part that was bothering him the most was the fact that he knew he could reach up and release himself at any point. His hands weren’t bound, so all he had to do was unclip the chain from the D-ring on his—_oh my God, Lev__—_on _the_ fucking collar. Or, better yet, unbuckle the whole bloody thing at the back of his neck and rip it off.

More time passed. Lev gingerly prodded at the bruised spots on his back.

There was obviously some kind of consequence for taking it off. His brain was supplying many possibilities at the drop of a hat, every time he thought about reaching up to unclip the chain. So many, all bad. All very, very painful. He eyed the tripod setup in the corner of the room, the camera pointed in his direction. An instinctual, now familiar recoil juddered its way through his body, but no matter how much he tried to shoo his mind away it kept coming back to the same line of thought:

_Just unclip it. Just unclip it. Just _do _it._

What’s the worst that could happen, really—he’ll get beaten for it? Martin would beat him, and drug him, and keep him in a room, and not let him leave?

Lev hung his head, groaning. At least if it had been locked in place or something, he could just feel sorry for himself about it. But like this? Like this he had to _think _about it_. _And he was lucid, but he was also sore, and exhausted.

He put his hands in his lap. Thought about unclipping the chain, again. Cursed himself for being so weak, again. Shifted his weight forward, _again_. And waited.

-

When the door was opened, Lev was startled out of half-wakefulness and nearly strangled himself on his collar. 

Martin had his shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and was carrying a bulky roll of canvas. “Afternoon, love,” he said, pleasantly. “Ambien worn off yet? You’re still looking a bit peaky.”

He walked over to the camcorder, glancing at the screen, reaching up to fiddle with it. Lev tracked the man’s movements with watchful eyes.

“Hm. Battery’s dead.”

That… God_. _Lev wanted to laugh, and cry, and scream, and beat his head against the floor. He felt the bubble of a hysterical little giggle work its way up the back of his throat.

That wasn’t_ fair_.


	17. Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev and Martin have a chat. (Captivity Day 9.)

Martin seemed relaxed. Dressed in a sweater and slacks, hair combed back and shiny with oil or water.

The man had hurty moods, and talky moods. Lev was starting to recognise which was which, no matter how disconcerted that fact made him. Granted, he’d never yet left the room without being physically hurt, in some way. But on the talky mood days, it was slow. Almost thoughtful. Easier to handle, all of this, if he didn’t have to limp for days afterward. If only some movements resulted in pain, instead of every one of them.

He could take pain, by now, Lev realised wryly.

For now, he let his body be manipulated. Head heavy from the after-effects of what had apparently been _ambien_, good to know, and generally exhausted from the hours spent kneeling in the chain. Emotionally drained, too, after the revelation that the camera had been off, the whole time. That no one watched him struggle under the weight of his own obedience.

He tried not to look at himself in the mirror when he was moved to sit in front of it, knowing that it would only hurt to see himself like this. Too much. Tried not to look too deeply into the eyes of the boy who _knew _he'd been sexually assaulted, ultimately, at some point, but couldn't quite recall the details of it.

Mercifully or horrifyingly, couldn't quite recall the details of it.

Martin set the roll of canvas down on the floor beside Lev, and moved to sit behind him. His chest against Lev’s back.

“I’m gonna give you the rookie speech. One of mine died today, and I’ve been thinking about it.”

Lev must’ve been still out of it, because a _sorry_ was muttered, and he was pretty sure the voice that muttered it was his own. But he didn’t have the energy to unpack _that_.

Martin looked at him through the mirror. He shrugged one shoulder, expression flat. “It happens. I don’t like it, but it’s inevitable.” He reached over to the canvas and undid the ties holding it together. Lining the inside of the roll were several pockets. Martin reached into one of them and produced a knife.

Lev felt a pitiful whine escape him. That rarely got him anywhere, but he was mostly made of instinct, by now. When _he _was around.

“It’s just a trainer. Not sharp. See?” Martin curled his arms around Lev to show him, running the edge against his own forearm.

The knife was curved like a talon, a small serrated section extending a few inches from the top of the handle. A loop of metal sat on the other end, and Martin was holding it with his index finger through the loop, and the tip of the blade pointed down. Lev noted how many old scars there were along the skin, there. Healed wounds. Knife kisses, the man called them.

“Do you know what this is called?”

Lev shook his head.

“It’s a karambit. Here, take it.” He pressed the knife into his hand. “You can hold it like this,” he said, moving Lev’s fingers into the same grip he had just been using. “That’s reverse grip. Or, you can do this,” he took the karambit and inverted it, threading Lev’s pinky finger through the metal loop. “Forward grip. Feels good, right?”

Lev looked up wearily as if to ask _what’s the point, here?_

“Okay, okay. Someone pulls a knife on you. What do you do?”

The situation was messed up, and Lev was already feeling particularly absurd. “Die?”

Martin genuinely laughed at that, pecking Lev on the cheek. “I mean, you’re not wrong. You know the saying, _don’t bring a knife to a gun fight? _In close quarters, if the gun isn’t drawn yet, knife wins. Well, not always. But I’d rather someone draw a gun on me than a knife.

“But, anyway—someone pulls a knife, you run. You run fast. Which I bet you knew already, because you’re a smartie, but there’s a whole lot of idiots who are like _yeah but__, you can __just fuckin’ __push on their hand like this __and __then disarm ‘em_,” he drawled, in an impossibly Australian accent, and twisted Lev’s hand backward slowly to illustrate. Taking the blade back.

“Or other Krav Maga bullshit. But back in reality, someone isn’t gonna bring a knife in on you real slow. They’re gonna go—“

Martin rapidly mimed stabbing Lev in his abdomen, his chest, slashing across his throat, his right shoulder, coming around the back to stab him three times in the ribs. Lightning quick, and Lev was fake-dead within moments.

“That’s what happened to my trainee. Fucker pulled a knife only a couple metres away from him—really he shouldn’t have let the guy come that close at all, but he thought he could trust him, whatever—but he hadn’t drawn his gun yet. And because it takes a long time to go…”

Martin leaned them both to one side, pulling up Lev’s imaginary shirt, unholstering his imaginary concealed carry, pointing it at the mirror. “Before he was even here,” he rewound to both hands at the 'holster’, “he was dead. Knife smooching him real deep in the trachea.” Martin finished with a grimace.

They were sitting on the cool stone slabs, in a room designated for his suffering, and the man was holding him, and pointing out all the ways he could kill him with ruthless efficiency. But the point didn’t seem to be to harm him, or really even to scare him. It sounded almost like he was simply... venting to a friend.

Lev wasn’t about to jinx whatever this was by opening his mouth, so, he kept quiet. He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing.

“The whole point of a weapon is to be felt, not seen. And the other guy knew that, and I’d taught my guy that. And, fuck—wasn't even the only thing this week, just learned that one of my routes has been compromised, had another casualty in that." Martin pressed his lips, and then his forehead to the back of Lev’s neck. “But yeah. Sometimes shit happens. Sometimes... people bleed out in your arms.”

They sat for several minutes in silence. Martin’s sweater was soft against his back, his breath coming in warm puffs across Lev’s skin. Lev wondered just how 

“You’re a good listener, love. I could use a drink, and I’m sure you could go for a cuppa, yeah? And then I’ll show you around our new place. What do you say?”

Lev didn't need to say anything—Martin pulled them both up to standing, and guided him gently from the room.


	18. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin helps his boy remember. (Captivity Day 12.)

“Don’t pull away from me. Come on. Think.”

“Please, please don’t, I can't—“

“You can._Think_.”

“Fuck, I don’t, I can’t remember,I don’t know, I don’t _know__—_”

“Lev. Breathe.”

Lev shook his head, chest hitching. Not overwhelmed, not just yet. But on the brink.

Releasing Lev’s hands, Martin gave him a few moments of space. Stepped back, just to admire the way he was trembling on the floor. Arms in front of him, tight in the column ties. They’d been through the one he’d been introduced to yesterday, and the one from the day before, and now they were onto the five they’d started on, and his boy couldn’t remember the name of number four.

It was a wonder Lev could remember anything, really, with the way he kept zoning in and out like that. It wasn't like talking to a person in total shutdown, completely dead to the world around them—his boy always managed to retain just enough information to make things interesting. The names of knives one through seven, for instance.

Martin was fascinated by the ebb and flow of him. It made him want to play.

“Now. Try again.”

“It’s a—it’s a balisong… Temper,” Lev gasped.

“Good.” Martin flipped the balisong between his fingers. “I’m going to give you one minute, and then I want you to hold your arms up for me.”

He couldn’t resist it. It just excited him so damn much, to get him like this. Struggling to focus, but trying so hard to be good. Biting at his bottom lip every time the point of a knife sank into his skin, tracing one more neat line between the coils of rope around his forearms.

Lev was looking up at him with those big brown eyes and Martin just wanted to kiss him. Instead, he glanced at his watch, and then held out a hand.

When he bled into the jute, dark red running deep into the white twists of it, running into three others that had already been reopened, today… it was more than lovely. It was fucking hot.

“So. Balisong?”

“Temper_”_, Lev repeated. Voice quiet.

He circled, wiping the blade clean against the bare, freckled shoulder, before closing and pocketing it. Retrieving next the black-handled flick knife, and pushing the button deployed it with a _shi__nk._ Lev flinched, before correctly identifying it. “Zealot.”

Martin felt a swell of something akin to pride. “Oh_, _that was very good, Lev. We’ll have to add another to the mix, see if you can tell them apart by sound alone. Arms up.”

The third-to-last cut reopened, Martin circled back to the front, pulling the karambit from his belt. He crouched down, using the hooked knife to brush a stray lock of hair from his boy’s face. Lev’s eyes nearly crossed as he tried to follow it, which was just adorable, really. Too cute.

“Diligent—the,” he swallowed. “Karambine.”

“Karambit,” Martin corrected. “But, y'know, you’re doing so well. I’m gonna give you that one.” He smiled, bopping Lev on the nose with the sharp tip of it, earning a small _n__n__h,_ before bringing it down to trace the ghost of its cut.

“Okay, last but not least.” He pulled the very first blade that Lev had ever been introduced to, that one evening almost two weeks ago now, holding it with reverence.

What colour was left in Lev’s face drained as the seconds ticked by, and his eyes darted up and down as he tried urgently to remember the name of the folding knife, and he stuttered out a _fuck __fuck fuck__, no no n-no._

Martin pursed his lips in mocking regret. “You got so close. Ah well.”

“Please, d—“

As the blade slid into his other arm, alongside the two other wounds that marked previously forgotten introductions, deep, deep into Lev, the words abruptly became screams.

Martin dragged him closer, muttering to his boy not to move or he might accidentally twist it. He dragged his tongue up and over his cheek, savouring the taste of the salt there. Whispering the name of the blade into his ear.


	19. Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graham would give anything. (Captivity Day 12.)

Pierce slammed his hands against the steering wheel, each impact sending a judder through the car.

“Fuck!” Bang. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—_FUCK_!”

He brought his closed fists up to his face. Pressed them into his eye sockets. Shoulders heaving. His breath came heavy, condensing quickly in the cold of night. Winters sat in the passenger seat, silent. If they objected to the outburst, they didn’t say it.

It was twelve days since Lev had been kidnapped, and Pierce was starting to lose his fucking mind. Three days ago they’d both turned the safehouse upside-down, looking for any trace as to where Martin had fled, and come up empty. Then, this morning, Winters had contacted Pierce saying they had something to show him—in person, preferably. He had half-expected to be gunned down by some unseen assailant while driving to the location they’d specified. Although it wasn’t like he had any other options, here, but to go.

But, true to their word, when he’d pulled into the grocery store parking lot it was only Winters standing out there on the kerb, in the chilly air, wrapped in a large grey coat, rubbing their hands together for warmth. They had climbed into the car, handing him their phone.

“I got sent these by an associate—someone’s been sending them around. It’s… parts two and three.”

Winters, to their credit, had looked on while he watched his lover’s brutal torture.

Pierce had thought the whole ‘red room’ thing was a myth. Some internet horror story—but having seen the things that he himself had seen, and done the things he’d done, rumours of livestreamed torture rooms weren’t far off the beaten track. Anything could be bought, with the right type of currency.

Was that what this was? After part twelve… would his partner be sold off to some other sadist? Or, since twelve days had already elapsed, _part 1, 2, 3 of 12_…

Was he already lost?

Pierce replayed the first video in his mind as if it were a skipping record. Lev, in snippets. Laid out on a bed, hands tied to the headboard. His body already strewn with bruises. Cuts. Bloody fingerprints. Bite… bite marks. A man, identity unknown.

They’d tied him for no reason, Graham had noted grimly. Lev had looked to be checked out, for lack of a better description. The lights were out in his eyes for the entire fifteen minutes of footage. Just… blank. His head turned to the side.

Pierce couldn’t watch the second video. He knew he had to, to find him, to save him, but he just… he rested his head on the steering wheel, and closed his eyes. “Does he know that you’re with me?”

“I’d probably be dead by now, if he thought that. But honestly, I’m not certain.“

“How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

“You don’t.”

“And you haven’t been followed?”

Winters’ grunt was a _come on, mate_, said plainly enough.

In the ensuing quiet, punctured only by the cracks of the cooling engine, Pierce wondered whether this was just a bluff, meant to fuck with his head. Whether Martin would actually sell Lev, or just sell the chance to be in a room with a cute boy and some tools. There seemed to be enough people lining up for a go.

If Pierce had the words to express his disgust, he’d scream it from the rooftops forever. He rubbed at the scar on his palm.

“What happened, between you two?” Winters asked.

Pierce frowned. No point in keeping it hidden now.

“He’s done fucked up shit like this before. _Keeping_ people. I found where he was hiding them, back when we were both Family.” In a tiny basement, chained up and branded, just how his partner was now. “I told them to run away, that I’d make up something protect them, but they just… they were so broken. They’d been there for _years_. They just wanted to die. I killed them, and covered it up. Guess he found out.”

One more handful of silence. Pierce vowed he wouldn't fucking cry in front of an associate.

“I think I know where he is,” Winters said. “But in return... I need a favour.”

Lifting his head so quickly it made the world spin, Pierce looked at Winters, adrenaline flooding him in entirety. “Anything," he urged. "Tell me. I’ll give you anything.”


	20. Stripped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev knows he's fading. (Captivity Day 14.)

Martin leaned against the breakfast table, with a rope in his hands and a glimmer in his eye.

“Remember that little chat we had about buttons and knobs?”

It was early in the morning, just before the staff would be coming in to start cooking breakfast and cleaning the main living area, and Lev found himself wishing, however briefly, that the man would just shut up for once. He was always either describing in explicit detail whatever fucked up thing he was about to do to him, was currently doing to him, or had just done to him.

But he didn’t dare say any of that. Instead he gave a silent nod, lest the man get the idea that he needed a refresher on that particular conversation.

Martin smiled. “Good. Come here.”

Closing the few paces’ distance between them, Lev kept one eye on the rope that was already being formed into loops in the other man’s hands.

“You’re so little, did you know that? Hm,” he said, looking him over, as if noticing for the first time the height difference between the two of them. The back of a knuckle trailed down and over one of his shoulders, and a light shiver was the only reaction his body provided. He didn’t react much to anything, any more—most of his emotions seemed to have moved on to greener pastures, and he felt… stripped. Dulled. Even fear was a luxury he could seldom afford. He was having to ration it.

The thin, black rope was wound tightly around his wrists and knotted, the other end of it threaded through the ring of his collar and pulled, until his hands were secured up at his throat. Martin moved to circle around behind him.

Even if he did struggle, or somehow make the process harder in any way, the man would just find another more creative, more inhumane way of getting him to do what he wanted. There was always something worse. So instead, he was running on process. Do the thing, and maybe he would be allowed some extra rest at the end of the day. A cup of tea. Precious minutes of unconsciousness. A glimpse of Graham in his dreams, maybe.

It must have been months since he'd been free.

A hand on the back of his neck and another at the small of his back forced him forward, slowly, until he was bent over the table. The fingers at the back of his neck squeezed before retreating, a silent warning. _Stay still._

Lev swallowed, trying not to think. Failing. What was happening? Why weren’t they in the room for this?

“Shaking already, love? Is it fear, or anticipation?”

He could barely tell which parts of himself were him, any more. All of them were wrapped up in layers upon layers of survival instinct and self-preservation, and ongoing, endless pain.

“It’s okay. I know you get quiet when I do things like this to you… when you don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t mind it. All of the little reactions your body gives me is more than enough. In fact,” he said, stroking down the side of his thigh, “I think they’re my favourite.”

He had assumed that Martin would get rid of him as soon as he was broken—the man had a constantly growing list of hobbies, obsessions, addictions, and fancies that were typically fleeting. He’d expected, almost hoped, that one day too he would be thrown away. Like a cheap plastic doll, bent and ugly. 

Was he… not already broken? Not broken _enough?_

That was a scary thought. Because how much lower could it go, from here? At the hands of this man, who always had a glass of scotch in one hand, and a knife in the other, but still managed to find a way to have both hands all over him.

Each ankle was secured to a table leg, and there was a small tug on his collar as the rope was brought over to the opposite side of the table, and pulled taut. Secured somewhere over the edge of it.

He was facing the wrong direction to be able to see anything, but he could now hear the sounds of the early morning staff filtering into the main room, bumping together pots and pans, chatting to each other in a language he couldn’t understand. Martin greeted them as they walked in, one hand still pressing him into the table, and Lev’s eyes widened at the realisation that there was about to be a lot more people passing through this room—more staff, Martin’s men, guests. 

People who would all see him like this, tied down in nothing but his underwear and his collar. Lev almost wished he was back in the room, just the occasional blink of the camera, and the attention of one or two people. Away from the tens, potentially several tens of eyes that were about to be curiously, or maliciously, running over his body. It almost distracted him from the man still leaning over him, stroking his hair out of his face.

“God. You’re beautiful.” Lev felt a nuzzling at his neck, lips running over the skin just above his collar. “I can’t get over how fucking good you smell. I’ll be back in a few hours, okay? Be good for me.”

As usual, Lev was left with no other choice.


	21. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin knows his boy is fading too. (Captivity Day 14.)

When the meeting finished he found Lev right where he’d left him—tied down to the breakfast table.

He checked his watch. It was well past midday, now. Most of the gang and staff had either left to other jobs, or were getting a few precious moments of shut-eye before they had to work this evening, when all the good stuff happened. Smuggling, drug-running, kidnapping. The only other person in left the room was one of the cleaning staff, and his attention was fully absorbed by the pots and pans in the sink. The faint drum and bass of some kind of atrocious techno-shit was blasting through the dish-washer’s earbuds.

Slowly sauntering over to the display, Martin cast a careful gaze down the man’s body, over the slight trembling of the limbs, the tight jaw, the squeezed-shut eyes. As if willing himself to be somewhere else. He probably was. Martin had given orders not to touch him, and he doubted anyone would do so without his express permission. It was more likely his boy had just stressed himself out with the thought and anticipation of it. Exactly as he’d intended.

Hooking one finger under the small space between the back of Lev’s neck and the leather collar, he lifted his head a few inches. Noting the small jump at his light touch.

“How are you doing there? Want me to let you up, yet?” he said, but received no response.

After untying the ropes, Martin sat down on one of the chairs and pulled Lev into his lap. Wound fingers into his dark hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. He felt Lev sag against him, closing his eyes, letting himself drift. So, he did too. He looked off into the distance, through the nearby window at the small garage, and the chopped cars parked around it. Just holding him.

He wondered what went on in that brain, of his. When he was scared, struggling, hurting, but still so yielding beneath his fingers. He had a quiet graciousness to him that didn’t seem to fade, even when he was almost delirious with pain, or pleasure. He wondered… if it would be possible, at all, to touch him gently like this for long enough that he’d never let another person be this close to him. He wondered if Lev would be able to tolerate any sort of intimate contact with a partner, or even a friend, ever again.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a twisting within his loose grip. Slightly surprised, he moved his arms out to form a wider circle, and Lev slipped out from them, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

“What’s gotten into you?” Martin asked, genuinely confused at the willful rebellion. Watching as Lev reached the cupboard and took out a crystal glass and a mug, placing them down on the counter. He put the kettle on, and shook some tea leaves into a small strainer, placing it in the cup.

Walking up behind him, Martin reached out to the kettle and flicked it off. When the slender hand reached out towards the kettle again, he reached out and caught it, enclosing it within his own. Pressing it flat against the kitchen counter, before bracing his other arm against the table on the other side of the man’s body, bracketing him.

“I asked you a question. What’s gotten into you?”

He was answered with a look of confusion, that small crease at the brow, same place as usual. Martin tilted his head to the side, remembering that his boy was probably still nonverbal at the moment, as he usually was after getting too stressed. He gripped him gently by the upper arms, and turned him so they were face to face. Trailed the back of a knuckle down his jaw, before taking him by the chin. “What is it that you want? If you can’t use your words and tell me, you can’t have it.”

That little wrinkle formed at Lev’s nose as he struggled, trying to force words that they both knew wouldn’t come. His mouth opened and shut, and he looked off to one side. The poor thing just wanted one small mercy, but Martin was feeling far too playful not to dangle it in front of him. To bat the field mouse between his paws. Lev’s slender shoulders drew in tighter, and his breathing grew faster. How easily he could be flustered, by something as simple as this.

Shaking his head with mock pity, Martin tutted. “If you can’t tell me what you want, how do you expect to get it? Come on, Lev Alexander. I know the words are in there somewhere, in that brain of yours.” He tapped a finger on the boy’s temple. He wondered if he could even understand the words, or if he was too scared to even listen straight. “Come on. Tell me. Say it.”

“_Han vil bare have noget _fucking_ te.”_

The dishwasher, who had paused his work and was now looking at them, was the owner of the lilting sentence. Hands hovering over the sink, dripping and sudsy, one earbud dangling over his shoulder. Grey-green eyes that had some fire in them, but a stunned expression, that read as though a brain was only just starting to catch up to a runaway mouth.

He didn’t know all of the cleaning staff by name, as the contracting companies willing to deal with… less legal clients usually cycled through staff quickly. Ex-cons, or immigrants, or other unfortunates they could pay under the table and didn’t have any recourse to complain about earning much lower than minimum wage.

“What’s your name?” Martin asked in English, knowing that most Danes spoke both.

“Niels,” came the gruff reply.

“Ah—_Niels Bohr. _Classic. _Dansk_, eh?”

The man nodded, uncertainty drawing across his face. Early thirties, at most. Faded dyed-red hair flopping over his forehead and in front of his eyes. A fat cluster of bubbles fell from scrubbing brush that he was still clutching in one soapy hand.

“Could you repeat that in English please, Niels, for the monolinguals here?” he said, gesturing to Lev, whose gaze was rapidly flicking between the two of them.

Niels shifted uncomfortably, no doubt as he realised how deep a hole he’d just climbed into. “He just wants the tea,” the man repeated in a thick, clunky accent. “It’s just tea.”

Martin’s eyebrows shot up. Interesting. His challenge had been met. Tilting Lev’s face to the side with two fingers, so he was looking directly at the other man, Martin dipped his head slightly. Speaking into the shell of the ear. “Did you hear that, love? Niels is offering to make you a cup of tea. Since you’re not allowed to make one for yourself. Isn’t that nice?” He turned back to the dishwasher. “That’s very kind of you, Niels. Would you come and boil the water for us?”

Putting down the brush, the dishwasher shot a sympathetic, determined look at Lev, before circling the pair of them to get to the kettle. He stood facing it as it began to simmer and then boil. Once it was done, he turned back to the pair of them with hot water in hand. Niels moved to pour it into the mug—but, just before the liquid could surface, Martin gripped Lev by the wrist and moved his hand to rest over the cup. Lev made a small, frightened noise deep in his throat, clenching his fist, turning his head away.

“Be careful, Niels.” Martin said, regarding the man coolly. “Don’t spill.”

Niels looked at him with a daring mixture of shock, and anger, and disgust… hesitating, looking over at Lev, the resignation in his posture… before placing the kettle back on its base, and walking back over to the sink. Picking up the scrubbing brush, and the next pot. Tilting his head down. Getting back to work.

Martin smiled and let go of Lev’s hand, but not before placing a gentle peck at the inside of his wrist. “Looks like you’re not getting that cuppa today. Sorry love.” Pushing him in the direction of the corridor, Martin shot one last comment back towards the kitchen—

“Maybe next time, _Niels Bohr_.” 

He laughed as he saw the man’s back and shoulders stiffen.


	22. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lev, Graham and Martin reach an understanding. (Captivity Day 15 - Final.)
> 
> Warning - named character death, major injury.

When Lev woke, there were two things he noticed.

The first was Davies leaning over him, untying him from the headboard. Muttering to himself.

“’_Jump__’__, _he says,_’__Of a cliff__, boss?__’_As if I do anything other than babysit now. Bloody fuckin’ hell.”

The second thing he noticed was the smell of fire.

Tendrils of smoke curled underneath the door and crept across the carpet, and heavy footfalls cut through the light in the hallway. Lev was wearing nothing but his briefs, as usual, lying on his side on the scratchy quilt cover.

Davies zip-tied his hands and feet, cinching them tight, before scooping him up from the bed. Lev was carried out of the bedroom and down the hall. He briefly registered the familiar sight of the dining area and the posterior rooms of the base, before they were outside in the chilly evening air.

The beginnings of a storm whipped around them, and Lev started to shiver, the heavy raindrops hitting his face as he bounced against the man’s chest. He tilted his head back to meet them.

He could hear distant gunshots, coming from the other side of the building. “What’s happening?” Lev asked softly.

“You—“

Davies’ head was yanked backward. He stumbled, dropping Lev like a sack of potatoes. No sooner had Lev turned his head to try and determine what the_ fuck_ had just happened than he was cut from the restraints, and pulled to his feet. Davies, however, stayed motionless on the ground.

Warm, familiar hands held his own. Lev felt his heart squeeze in love and relief alike, when his eyes first found Graham's face. His partner's eyes were set with a deadly focus.

“Can you run?”

“I think so—“

“Good—go, _go_,” Graham urged, and towards the nearby woods they pelted, sprinting the dozen or so metres before they broke through the looming wall of trees.

Lev threaded through pine trees and oak, the dense foliage like tiny lashes against his skin, the rocky, uneven ground ripping gashes in his vulnerable feet, but he had no other choice but to press on. Graham steadied him in moments where he stumbled, short of breath, close behind.

He could hear the sounds of people in pursuit, hot on their trail, shouting. A distant explosion. More gunshots.

“Police raid?”

“Winters—instigating a gang war.”

“Who_—what__?”_

“Keep going,” Graham panted. “Don’t stop.”

They ran, side by side, tearing through the underbrush. They ran until Lev’s chest burned and his legs started to lose feeling, his battered body aching. They ran until finally they could see through the furthest trees, tiny pricks of light from street lamps twinkling, or windows, headlights—

On the next step the loose rocks and soil gave way and Lev fell, toppling over a ledge and sliding down a steep slope. He rolled, coming to land on his hands and knees in mud. Lev scrambled to his feet, reaching back to help his partner up, but he was met with heavy resistance and a yelp, followed by a cut-off scream of agony.

As Graham collapsed back onto the waterlogged earth, letting out another strangled cry, Lev realised that it was over. They were done. He sank to his knees beside his sprawling partner, trying to hold him as best as he could.

His right leg was bent the wrong direction. The other ankle, too, snapped to one side.

He knew by the way that Graham looked at him before pulling him in, pressing their foreheads together, that he was thinking it too. That they only had a few moments left. That Lev needed to leave, now, or else he would be dragged off, never to be seen again—and that Graham would either be shot and killed on the spot, or left out in the rain to die slowly.

They’d been so close. _So close._

Lev put it all aside, and focused on him. Just on him.

On relearning the details of his face—different now, but still the same—the long, blond hair, and the way that it had come loose from the tie in sections, the rain plastering it to his cheeks. His eyes, filled with gentle fear, lined with pain. Watery blood from a cut on his nose, running down and over his chin. His hands on him, cupping the back of Lev’s neck, muddy fingers reaching up to stroke his face, dropping down to rest over his heart.

He’d recited the rhyme and metre of him so many times, desperately and endlessly since the day they'd met, that it was easy.

“I love you,” Graham murmured between short, broken gasps. “_N__hh_—I, I lo-love you, Lev, _ah__nn __fu-uck__,_ I love you, _so much_. You need to r-run, you, you need t'run.”

With one hand, he pulled Graham’s head down to rest against his chest. Reached for the holster—no gun. Pulled the knife from its sheath and held it up, in the direction of the hill.

Waited. For the sound of hurried, splashing footfalls, and the sight of three figures as they crested the top of the slope.

When Martin saw them he raised a hand. Holding off the men flanking him. They slowly lowered their rifles, and Martin lowered his own sidearm. He called out down the hill, over the worsening storm.

“Ah—and just what do you plan on doing with that from all the way down there, love?”

Lev felt Graham's body stiffen against his own. Felt the pang of fear as it twisted through him. Set his jaw against it, and pushed through.

He locked eyes with the man smirking down at them, and raised the knife higher. Baring his teeth.

“Either I’m gonna die, or I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

Martin’s face fell, and he raised the gun.

A roll of thunder, air electric with more than just that. Tension dug into Lev's skin.

“You idiots need to go review alarm procedure like your jobs are on the line. Which they are. Go,” Martin said, pushing one of his lackeys back in the direction they’d arrived from.

Once the men had left, Martin’s eyes raked over the broken wreckage of the pair of them. He ran his tongue over his front teeth, tilting his head to one side.

“When someone pulls a knife on you… huh.” Martin half-turned, scratching his temple with the barrel of the gun. “I think that might be the best fucking joke I’ve ever heard.” He flashed a genuine smile, before disappearing back into the forest.

Lev heard a semi-delirious _love you _from Graham, and he held him tighter. Pressed a kiss into his hair.

Kept his own hand and the knife outstretched, long after the man had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.


	23. Shelter - Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set four years into the future.

His boyfriend, as usual, hadn’t stopped chatting to the restaurant staff at the till for several minutes now.

Which was fine—the staff was lovely, and boxing up their dessert, and Graham was _fine—_but there were only so many times he could shuffle and check his watch before he would finally be required to go _oh my god, __love, __can __we__ please stop __trading __B-grade __horror movie recommendations and leave? Please?_

The detour through the park was better, much better. The air was clean and clear, and they could just stroll alongside the harbour, hand in hand, under an umbrella of stars. They stopped to sit close to the pedestrian bridge, watching the Ferris wheel slowly revolve on the far side of the river.

Feeling more like a sparrow in a cyclone than a man, Graham desperately tried to bring the words he’d mentally rehearsed about seventeen times on the way over—or was it more like twenty, at this point—to the front of his mind. He slipped off the bench and sunk down onto one knee, pulling the little box from his slacks.

“Lev… I—“

Lev’s eyes widened. “Wait,” he laughed, fumbling with the box of baklava. “Wait, just, wait a second, wait.”

“Lev—“

“I said _wait_, Graham Pierce, damn you!”

Lev set the dessert down, reaching into the breast pocket of his denim jacket… and produced an almost identical little black box. His nose scrunching up as he grinned.

Graham hugged his husband-to-be with giddy excitement buzzing through his veins, and hope filling his lungs.

_End._


	24. The Bad Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Martin had taken the shot.  
Content warning: Graphic major character death.

_“Either I'm gonna die, or I'm gonna fucking kill you.”_

_-_

_-_

_-_

Martin's face fell, and he raised the gun.

A roll of thunder—

And a shot.

Graham pulled back as he felt Lev jerk forward, eyes wide, hands flying up to clutch at his own throat. Dropping the knife as he did. His blood spilled forth from between the fingers like a dam breached, down his bare chest, spurting onto Graham's soaked shirt, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere—by the time Graham pushed him onto his back, rain-slick hands coming up to help his love put pressure there, the choking noises of a ruined airway had already yielded to weak and silent convulsions.

Every hapless pulse of the heart he adored was expelling his partner's life quicker from his body.

“He was dead the minute you fell in love with him. You know that, right?” The voice came from up close. Graham let out an agonised cry as he was pulled backward through the mud by his broken leg—no, he needed, let him_—_

Martin crouched by Lev, prying his hands away from his neck. Lev was powerless to resist it, fading too quickly.

Martin wrapped one hand around his love's throat—a cruel imitation of helpfulness, only meant to prolong, not to save.

Graham dragged himself towards him with his elbows. Every extra second it took, an unimaginable waste. A boot pinned his leg to the ground, and he screamed in pain.

“What would you offer me, in exchange for his last moments?” Martin said, looking up at him, and then down at Lev as he choked on his own blood. Lev reached up to bat at Martin. The action feeble. Useless.

“I have nothing left to give you,” Graham sobbed, his fingers outstretched, reaching, his voice shaking. “He's all I've got. Please.”

Martin laughed in mocking sympathy, the sound slicing down to bone. “Oh sweet, baby blood-brother of mine. You forget yourself, again, and again, and _again, _don't you? It seems you missed the entire point of those videos—he's mine, mine to—“

“_He is NOT _YOURS_—_”

“—keep, mine to love, mine to mark, mine to _ruin. _And so are you. But, I'm a generous guy… I might let you hold him, afterward.”

Graham watched. Could _only_ watch.

As his love's movements grew slow.

Slow…

And then still.


End file.
